Dying for Millions Read Online Free Page A

students.’ He’d taken the hint. ‘They’d have to have a serious capacity for hard work. I don’t want anyone farting round thinking all they have to do is make tea and do their nails. Real work is what I’m talking.’ Take it or leave it, his voice said: then that smile.
    â€˜And not nine till five? That would eliminate some of our Asian students – the girls, especially. Their fathers bring them in at five to nine, collect them at four-thirty.’
    â€˜What about the others? You must have other students?’
    â€˜Plenty.’ My tone conveyed more conviction than I felt. How many students would want to work those hours?
    â€˜I think there might be a way round this,’ he said slowly. ‘What about – the same day a week, for several weeks? We could train them up to do something worthwhile, and it would free one of our staff to undertake a period of training. Then, as I said, there’d be the possibility of doing relief or holiday work, but that would almost certainly involve several evenings a week.’
    I back-tracked. ‘A lot of students do evening work at McDonald’s, or delivering pizzas. I’m sure we’ll find you someone good.’
    â€˜I don’t want anyone who
isn’t
good!’ His smile again, eventually, softened his words. ‘Oh, and we need two written references – Department of Transport regulations.’ He shot a look at his watch. ‘Twelve already. You’ll join me for a bite in the canteen?’
    I looked at mine in turn. ‘I wish I could. But I’m teaching at one-fifteen.’
    â€˜Come on. It’s only fifteen minutes back to the city centre. Well, twenty.’
    His smile became very engaging indeed. I shouldn’t offend a potential placement; it would have been churlish to refuse. ‘I promised I’d talk to a student – can I make a phone call to put her off?’
    â€˜There’s a phone in my office.’
    It turned out Mark had played cricket before he hurt his hip, and was still a keen Warwickshire supporter. So we gossiped cricket for as long as it took us to eat salad and rolls, and drink rather weak decaffeinated coffee in what he referred to as the Mess. I was the only woman among short-haired men in smart shirts with impressive shoulder flashes; braided caps were much in evidence.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I said at last, ‘but I really must dash. I’ve got an A-level class.’
    â€˜Tell you what,’ he said, ‘you really ought to see what it’s like at night. Come over next week. Let’s see – I think I’m rostered for Tuesday. Come over about nine. We’ll have a drink first, then I’ll show you round.’
    I must have been off my head: trailing round in the cold – and almost certainly the rain – of a February night wasn’t my usual idea of a good time. But I heard myself agreeing. And, come to think of it, I found myself looking forward to it.

Chapter Three
    RIVERS , ANDREW MICHAEL .
Passed away in his sleep, 14 February. Reunited with his dear wife Freya. Private funeral. No flowers
.
    I’d been leafing idly through the courtesy
Evening Mail
at the Chinese takeaway. In the kitchen, someone added garlic to a pan; two middle-aged men were condoling with each other on West Bromwich Albion’s recent bad performance.
    â€“ Passed away in his sleep—
    â€˜Two frie’ ri’e; chicken and bean sprou’; beef with green pepper?’
    No! No, not Andy. Someone else. Andrew Rivers was a common enough name. This Andrew Rivers
couldn’t
be my cousin Andy. I’d know the moment he died, without having to read about it in a evening paper. I’d
know
.
    â€˜Don’t use their heads, see. All those lofted balls …’
    â€“ dear wife Freya—
    I forced myself to look at the TV on the corner of the counter, but they’d turned the sound down. The decor, then: